


And He’ll Come When I Call

by sleepycryptid



Series: Junie Tyrone and her Titan Boyfriend [1]
Category: Labyrinths of Astoria (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, I didn’t want to reread all of Hade’s route to write her so I’ve only done scenes so far, I do this thing where I read Lovestruck and then rewrite routes with an mc I actually like, I was salty she didn’t throw the ring, Named MC, Or alternatively: (John Mulaney voice) You Know how I’m Filled with Rage?, Working title: Let Women be Angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27077419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepycryptid/pseuds/sleepycryptid
Summary: A helpless rage boils over
Relationships: Astraeus/Main Character (Labyrinths of Astoria), Astraeus/Original Female Character, Past Hades/Main Character (Labyrinths of Astoria)
Series: Junie Tyrone and her Titan Boyfriend [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1976221
Kudos: 3





	And He’ll Come When I Call

The scream of frustration nearly makes it all the way up her throat before she finally notices its presence, choking it back down at the last second so that all that escapes is a tight-lipped, anguished whimper. The ring presses a red-rimmed indent into her palm where she clutches it almost hard enough to bruise.

Does he think refusing to take it back will change her mind? That so long as it remains in her possession the engagement will remain intact?

It must be so easy for him, she thinks. He isn’t the one losing his entire self, this time. He isn’t even truly losing her. Hera or June—what difference does it make when they share the same face? The same voice? The same body?

Her free hand presses palm first into her lips, her stomach roiling as if she is about to be sick right into the fountain in front of her. The thought of how many times he’d seen her laid bare before him, vulnerable and ignorant of this dark, ugly side of his nature. Like the flipped side of a coin.

How he’d put his hands on her. His lips. Retroactively, she feels suddenly violated. She wants to tear through time itself and force those hands away before they ever have a chance to take hold of her. She wants to gouge those eyes out before they can even glimpse her.

Had he ever really been in this for her? Or had she been a cheap imitation of Hera, herself; a mere cocoon that housed her familiar essence?

She can’t shake the dreadful suspicion that she’d been used. A toy, a doll, a plaything for the gods.

A sob strangles it’s way up her throat, muffled against her palm, but more than despair she feels a deep, bottomless fury. A rage that makes her want to lash out and wail at the sky—at Olympus. She feels that if only she could weaponize this crushing pain, she’d be able to strike them all down at once with the strength of it. Her heart is an atom bomb in her chest.

There’s little she can do, surrounded by so many people. She can’t scream, can’t curse the gods like she’d gone mad, or she’d surely be receiving a prompt visit from the authorities. She can’t break down into angry sobs and beat the ground with her fists, can’t let the emotions sweep her away in a torrent of misery. She can’t lose herself to hysterics—she refuses.

But there is something she _can_ do.

She glares downwards, casting her baleful gaze on the sparkling ring in her now open and upturned palm. It’s almost as if the force of her anger would be enough to melt it down right there. Something that had once served as proof of a God’s love, now she suddenly cannot stand the sight of it. 

He doesn’t have to take it back—but he can’t make her keep it.

It’s an action that most would do without thinking—a fit of passion that one might regret later—but as June cocks her arm all the way back and sends the ring flying across the rippling water to the other end of the fountain she is entirely aware for every singular second of it. She burns with conviction—and then bitter satisfaction when the glittering silver band disappears beneath the surface—and the regret never comes.

Temporary catharsis is catharsis all the same, and she allows herself to sink into the warm numbness that comes afterwards. For however long it lasts, it is _hers_. She lingers in it, knowing that _he_ can’t possibly take it away.

Part of her isn’t even surprised when the warm, sweet breeze tickles around her ankles—sweeping along the dancing pink petals that always accompany it. Even less surprising is the voice, the softness of it—like a gentle caress against the shell of her ear.

“Blossom?”

She surprises herself, though, by humming out a quiet laugh. _Blossom_ —the pet name turns over and over in her mind, and it seems to her so unfitting. The last thing she feels in this moment is soft and flowery.

Her hand warms, her mother’s ring reacting instantly to his proximity. The glow is soft, now, pulsing mutedly like a jungle cat coiled to pounce when the moment is right. For a dark moment she thinks that perhaps if he were to attack in this moment, she might just let it happen.

Let the gods lose Hera for good, as she laughs on in the underworld.

When she turns, June realizes belatedly that she probably looks a mess. Disheveled from her run and eyes rimmed bright red from her near outburst a moment ago. When Astraeus looks at her, though, it doesn’t seem to matter much to him.

There’s a wealth of sympathy in his eyes, but he smiles in that familiar, gentle way.

“Forgive me,” he tilts his head downward only slightly, for just a moment, “it seems I often have that affect. Perhaps you should call on me when you aren’t so distraught.”

June feels her mouth slant into a skeptical smile. “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it, huh?” Despite the nature of her expression, his warms in return.

“Of course.” He states plainly. He doesn’t step closer, but there’s a gentle sway to the way he stands that’s almost imperceptible, as if he wants to. “Does the Reaper not play his lyre in honor of your heart? Does he not shed iron tears when you wrap your noose around his soul, clinging to him like a helpless lamb?”

June feels her lips purse before she makes a conscious effort to do so. Despite herself, an eyebrow arches in confusion. “It’s really a toss up whenever you speak, whether I’m gonna know what you’re talking about or not.” When he tilts his head, he reminds her somewhat of a confused pup, and a corner of her mouth twitches into what is almost a smile before she chokes it back down again. “How about you try again—but this time speak plainly. No poems, no metaphors,”

She takes a step closer, rolling her eyes, “ _P_ _lease_ no godsdamned Ancient Greek.”

His eyes sparkle with something like amusement, but then he closes them for a moment and when they reopen he seems nervous. He speaks slowly, as if it takes a concerted effort to keep his words literal. How long had he been speaking in riddles, she wonders, that it had become like his mother tongue? Something he has to translate in his head first, stifling the normal flow.

“You feel...very nice to people like Hades and me.” He settles on, “We are drawn to you. Your heart burns brilliantly, and like moths conceding to their nature we flock to you.”

Almost as soon as the words leave him his eyes widen. He brings both hands up to his mouth, covering it with his fingers and looking positively aghast. “Sorry! No metaphors.” Slowly, his brows knit together, “I’m trying, Blossom.”

She very nearly snorts aloud, she hadn’t even been half-expecting him to take her so seriously. The laughter sits restrained on her tongue, coloring her words even if she doesn’t allow it to escape. “I...understood that one, at least.”

His grin is nothing short of boyish, cheeks tinting a pale pink. But by the time his hands drop again his expression has sobered—and the sorrow she sees there reminds her something of her own.

When he again speaks, his voice is as soft as his gaze. “I sense the misery within your heart, and it is unbearable. Does that make sense?” She pauses a moment before nodding slowly, trying to absorb the words as she can. “I wish you knew what it was like for those of us who love you. In the same breath, I hope you never do...”

“Hades, he...never told me anything like this.”

“Probably he didn’t want to worry you.”

 _No_. The temporary quiet in her chest is replaced with the fire from before. The anger. _Just didn’t want to admit that he knew exactly what he was putting me through...all this time. To protect himself._

She feels the cautious gaze of the Titan before her, watching her as one might watch the tide before a storm. She wishes suddenly that she had another ring to throw.

“The gods...they claim to despise the sight of our suffering—and yet so often they are the very source of it.” His brow furrows once more. “The gods have toppled dynasties in their fits of passion, and we Titans are much the same. I, myself, cannot claim to be much better than him, for the same selfishness runs thick through our blood. The only thing I can say for certain is that we grow tired of this endless conflict, and the Titans will try again and again until Olympus is shattered, itself.”

It’s not a threat, but a promise. Spoken fact. June feels herself shudder at the thought—how long since Olympus had last gone to war? So far removed from her own time that she can’t even begin to imagine. The struggle with Pallas had only been the beginning—he’d sparked a fire of rebellion that would take ages to put out.

The coming storm is unavoidable.

“I ask that you trust me, and come with me, eventually; but for now you need only call to me as you have been—and I will come as summoned and flail about with my poems in an attempt to please you.”

June’s smile is wide, and only a little bitter. She shakes her head and turns her eyes away for a moment, so she does not see the way his face brightens at the sight.

“A Titan on call, huh?”

“For a while, at least.” His smile falls slightly, “For soon not even the wildest, most desperate call will be able to reach me.”

June meets his eyes as his meaning sinks in.

“I’m leaving, Blossom. To a place where you can’t reach me.”

“You’ve been an Earth this entire time?!” She just barely restrains herself from shouting, and strangely enough she can’t tell if it’s more in anger or worry.

He nods, unbothered. “Although I suffer greatly for it. I can return to you once more before I leave for good.” He does that sway again, without moving his feet. She wonders if he notices. “You don’t have to come with me, if you don’t want to; but if you stay here, you will surely die.”

“Everyone dies.” She replies without missing a beat. _Although for everyone else the circumstances are usually a lot simpler._

Astraeus hums thoughtfully, his dark eyes going distant for a moment. “Of course,” he replies, a hand absently coming to rest right above his heart. She watches his face pinch in pain, a subtle wince, before he smiles almost sadly. “And who am I to deny someone their death should they wish to face it with dignity?”

It strikes her in that moment, how much things have changed. It’s like she stands in a negative photo of her old life, where Hades is the one that seeks to sweep her away without a thought for her own wishes, and Astraeus is the one who offers her autonomy.

She stares him down, lost in thought with her teeth worrying into her bottom lip.

“How the tables have turned,” she muses, unsure of whether or not that’s such a bad thing.

“Hmm?” The smile he offers is bright and childish, accompanied by a quizzical gleam in his eyes. She shakes her head, dismissive.

“Just thinking out loud.”

“That’s the best way to think.” He says with smile unrelenting, and then quieter, something she can’t understand in a lilting foreign tongue. She raises a challenging brow, stepping closer again as if that will help her catch something already gone.

“What did I say about spouting Ancient Greek?”

His eyes blow wide again, bashful as he adopts the air of someone thoroughly scolded.

“Apologies,” He smiles weakly, “It doesn’t sound as good in English.”

This time when he sways, he really does step forward. She realizes how much she’d closed the distance between them before—without even really thinking about it. There’s genuine affection in every move as he reaches out slowly, as if not to startle her.

In that moment it would have been so easy for him to scoop her up and spirit her away. He’d done it before, and she’d been hard-pressed to stop him.

And yet, he merely cups her cheek with a feather-light touch, repeating the words for her to hear plainly this time. “The air from your lungs makes the thoughts real.” He translates after, and under his warm gaze she feels as though time has stopped. “Nothing is real until we interact with it. We control the world around us—shape it with our influence. Remember that, Blossom, the next time you feel helpless.”

The cool breeze sweeps up petals around their ankles, and as he disappears the last thing that leaves her is his touch on her face.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought she could be angrier :)


End file.
